


Salvation

by killjoycatlady



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, First Meetings, M/M, One Shot, Past Tense, Temporary Character Death, Time Shenanigans, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killjoycatlady/pseuds/killjoycatlady
Summary: Dean had accepted his eternity in Hell, had accepted his place, his eternal, messy, minimum wage job. He wasn't prepared for the light that swallowed him, a burning star full of hope, peace, salvation. He woke up in an unrecognizable forest with an unrecognizable man, where it was quiet, where it was too good to be true, and he needed to get out of there.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 18





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about the meeting before the first meeting, a meeting that they don't remember, one that slipped into the crevice of time between Dean being saved and Dean waking up.
> 
> A good chunk of this fic contains fairly graphic depictions of torture, both received and given. There are also very brief mentions of sexual assault, homophobic violence, and throwing up.
> 
> Shout out to my friend Isa for reviewing and helping me edit.
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy the story :)

_Isaiah 43:1_

_Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you._

~

_My name is Dean Winchester._

_My father is John and my mother is Mary._

_My brother is Sam Winchester. I sold my soul to Hell to save his life._

_Saving people. Hunting things. The family’s business._

Dean didn’t arrive in Hell. There was no transition where a reaper led him into the beyond and he watched as he was strapped into a torture chair. No. He was just there— boom, eyes closed and you’re dead, eyes open and a black, twisted figure is tracing cursive into your chest with a scalpel.

He screamed. He screamed for Sammy, his baby brother who he would stop at nothing to save who he hoped could move on from Dean’s death who needed to jump into this hole right now and save Dean save his soul. He cried for his mother and the memory of her touch that turned sharp and carved against his bones. He begged for his father, begged for forgiveness, begged for understanding because he had to protect Sammy he was sorry he was sorry he was sorry.

There was no sense of time in the pit. He could spend what felt like minutes jerked back and forth between a medieval contraption while a twisted, hazy figure drew patterns on his skin with a hot iron, and a cell made of ice and stone and an empty abyss outside that was dead to his screams of help. He could find himself strung up naked on a ceiling staring down at jagged spikes that slowly pierced into his gut for days upon days until time blurred together and he forgot how to count; he could be thrown into a cave, starved and bitten cold, watching his appendages blacken, shrivel, and fall to the floor.

Voices drifted around him unceasingly, hisses and crackles like snakes wrapping around his skin. He would see a shape, a face, a flash of pale eyes hidden amongst a cloudy mass that suffocated him like sand pouring into his lungs.

 _Let go, Dean._ There was a warped voice in his own head that scraped the inside of his skull. His back was flayed open and it said, _Join the ranks, Dean, this is what you were made to do. End your miserable suffering. Pick up the knife. You’re a carver, a butcher, a murderer._

Dean felt himself wither with age and his skin decay, before he was baptized in blood and reborn, a pale canvas for his master to paint pink and red.

_This is what you’ve been taught to do, Dean._

His skin stitched itself back together but he couldn’t move as fire burned up his calves.

_Soothe the pain with power, Dean._

He had no body. He had no adrenaline, shock, or last-ditch response to pass out to shield him from the worst sensations. He felt every spark, every slice. He was a bared soul with infinite nerve endings and no hands to shelter himself from the blows.

_I’ll be your teacher. I can tell you’ll be a promising pupil…_

Dean spit up goblets of blood and viscera when he screamed no.

_Come to me, Dean. I can make your pain go away._

Dean wanted Sammy, Dean wanted his brother and father and mother, he screamed and there was no response, _They left you, Dean.But I’ll always be here for you._

Mary Winchester burned him at the stake. John Winchester descended from Heaven and his touch vaporized Dean’s skin because the holy couldn’t mix with the damned. Sammy had white eyes and held a fist out, crushing Dean from inside out, and Dean was alone in foggy redness, chains digging into his muscle, and he was alone.

_Come to me. Dean. I’ll take care of you._

And Dean said, “Okay.”

The voice in Dean’s head let out victorious, uproarious laughter. Dean slammed his hands over his ears, clawing into his scalp, wanting it to stop, stop, stop. 

The laughter didn’t stop.

Dean found himself falling, spiraling downwards with no control.

He slammed against a hard, hot surface, and all the breath was knocked out of him. He blinked once, twice, thrice. The laughter surrounded his senses and it wasn’t in Dean’s head.

The fog had cleared and he could see everything.

A pale man with greasy, thinning hair and pure white eyes stood laughing. He cut off abruptly and out of thin air pulled a long, slim blade, sharpened to perfection and glinting in the firelight.

“Take this,” he said, and Dean did. The man nodded approvingly. “Your first lesson starts now. I’ll be your teacher. I’ll show you the ropes, as they say.”

He turned Dean around and suddenly Dean was facing a long, stretching room, so long that its end faded into mist. There were others, dressed in stained overalls, faces hidden from Dean, toiling like factory workers. There were screams and groans of rusty chains all around. Small portholes let in vicious light, hungry flames that reached into the hall and baked the stone bricks. Blood pooled on the floor and roaches skittered between legs, twitching and buzzing.

Dean looked down at his own hands. They were grimy and scabbed, dried blood caked under overgrown nails; his feet were in a similarly disgusting state.

“Look here, Dean.” The man tapped Dean’s shoulder and he turned. In a space he swore was empty a moment ago was a painfully bright, fluorescent _thing_. Dean blocked his eyes, hissing from the sudden light, and it slowly ebbed away, allowing him to see.

There was a woman chained, spread eagle, on what Dean could best describe as a torture rack. Her chest was heaving, and her skin was damp, fresh, clean. Her eyes were flared open, gleaming hazel, a pleading gaze full of terror.

“She found out her roommate was a lesbian, so she raped the girl and burned her alive in her bed,” the man told Dean conversationally. “Horrible, wouldn’t you agree?”

 _Horrible._ Dean did agree. This woman deserved to burn and there was no doubt in Dean’s mind about that conclusion. His fingers twitched at his side.

“Now,” the man said, hefting his own slender blade. “You are going to give her what she deserves.”

Dean flared with anger burning in his chest. Anger at what this woman did, what she took away from the world, her twisted mind. He had felt the pit’s wrath and it surged through him now as corrosive liquid energy. He split her skin and felt no regret. He would welcome her into eternal Hell.

The man guided Dean’s hand and time felt fluid, as malleable as a person’s bowels and lungs. He never left Dean’s side until he did, but he came back and praised Dean for his progress and dedication. His name was Alastair, Dean learned before long, and the name was branded on his shoulder like a tattoo.

Alastair preached mercilessness because those who entered Hell earned their spot there. A young man shot ten of his classmates, and Dean cut. A woman roofied a dozen men, and he cut. A man sold his soul for money, and he cut. A woman traded her soul for her child’s recovery, and it didn’t matter because she made her choice, and he cut.

 _My name is Dean Winchester._ He twisted the knife.

 _My mother died a horrible death._ He cracked a ribcage.

 _My father was a drunken bastard._ He peeled open a person like a banana

 _My brother is infected with demon blood._ He roared and there was screaming there was crying there was begging and Dean didn’t stop.

No one was fucking with him now. The universe didn’t get to jerk him around like a marionette because he was the one with the weapon and the ability to maim.

Alastair said Dean would be as good a punisher as he was, one day. Sometimes Dean wondered if he was already better.

Eternity torturing souls. He was looking forward to a long existence, almost monotonous in nature. But hey, he preferred this to being on the rack. Anything was better than being on the rack. Hell, maybe, privately, he even enjoyed it. An outlet. A distraction. When he was topside, it was booze and sex. In the pit, it was torture.

This was his eternity, and Dean couldn’t fight it, so he embraced it.

He became accustomed to demons sweeping through the hall as it occurred more often, accompanied by shouts and the ground heaving under his feet. If Dean didn’t know better, he would think Hell was being torn apart. The thought made him chuckle whenever he stumbled across it; Hell housed the most powerful creatures in the world, and there was no force in the vast expanse of the universe that could bring it down. Dean would know. He had tried, several times. In the end, Hell snapped him up as it seemed to do with everything it could lay hands on.

He only hoped that Sammy’s smarts could keep him from getting trapped in here, too.

Alastair visited less and less, and Dean didn’t find him a particularly pleasant presence, but there was a sense of security when he was around. Dean kept at his work, even when the workers around him started to dwindle.

One day, the ceiling broke open.

In poured in a brilliant light. It was cool and Dean gasped like a man who found an oasis after years afloat in the desert. It was so bright Dean could hardly see but he couldn’t tear his eyes away; he knew if he had a body his eyes would have burnt right out of his skull. A high-pitched whine shook the walls and Dean could hear nothing else. He swore the light was beckoning him, but it couldn’t be true.

The light felt good. It felt like hope and Dean had none because he faced an eternity in Hell.

The light descended and he wanted to argue as it tugged at his form—his soul— because he was supposed to be here, he was contractually obliged. The whining intensified to levels painful for even Dean’s non-body, and Dean wondered if by angering the light it would leave him be.

It came down upon him and Dean found himself powerless to stop it. He floated up, surrounded by tendrils of light—like a cow in a tractor beam, which was a funny thought. The light overtook his vision and he ceased being able to see.

His senses were functioning again and he was no longer floating in light, because he could feel solid ground underneath him and grass tickling his nose. The air was cool and crisp, a light breeze ruffling his hair. When he opened his eyes, the sky was a pure, clear blue. He sat up, his back popping as he did so. He was planted on the dirt and trees formed a ring around the clearing. There was a stray park bench sitting somberly under a young ash.

It was quiet. He hadn’t had quiet in a long time. He waited for the branches to turn to barbed wire that grabbed his limbs and tore his flesh apart. He waited for vultures to fly down and pick open his innards.

He waited and it didn’t happen. He was struck by how _un_ oppressive the silence was, like it would let Dean think straight but also let him burst into song if he wanted.

He looked down at himself, wondering if he’d find himself in a decaying corpse. Instead, he was dressed, well, normal. Jeans, flannel, and a leather jacket—his dad’s leather jacket—to top it all off. His hands were clean, unmarred—too clean, missing the faded, silvery scars he collected from random hunts over the years. They tremored like the hands of a drug addict, craving something to grasp onto. A gun for security. The handle of a blade.

Dean’s mind scrambled—hellhounds, screaming, blood on his hands, like a tape on rewind—and put itself back together in pure instinct to survive. Dean dug his hands into the earth, finding it soft, damp, lumpy with stones and roots. This wasn’t at all like the Hell he had experienced, and that alone brought back an age-old dread he thought he had stamped out many torture sessions ago. He didn’t want to entertain the possibility that he was no longer in Hell, but if he looked at this rationally, as if he were working a case, he couldn’t dismiss it as a possibility.

“Where in the hell am I?” he questioned out loud. His voice was scratchy, as if it hadn’t been used in a considerable while. When had he last spoken?

 _Okay,_ he heard as a distant echo, accompanied by triumphant glee. The ground spun beneath him. It was a familiar feeling— maybe he _was_ still in Hell.

“That’s incorrect,” said a voice and Dean was on his feet in an instant, patting his clothes for a weapon. He had none.

The voice belonged to a man, a rather unassuming man who was watching Dean with piercing blue eyes. He was suited in a drab trench coat and a tragically knotted tie. Dean disliked him instantly.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean asked. “To which one of Satan’s bastards do I owe the pleasure?” He spread his hands in mock greeting

The man didn’t blink. “I am Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“Come on, you can’t think I’m that easy,” Dean said derisively. “Angels don’t exist.”

“Yes, they do,” Castiel stated.

Dean didn’t bother to argue, instead settling for a condescending look. He knew what he knew, and this Castiel character wasn’t particularly convincing. Hell needed better actors. “Why are you dressed like a tax accountant?”

Castiel looked down at himself, frowning. Seemingly confused. “I do not know. This is no vessel I have taken before. A strange interpretation, made for your mind to process, I suppose.”

Dean didn’t point out that absolutely none of that made sense to him. He wasn’t sure if he cared, at the present moment. “Where am I?” It was false bravado, and he knew it. He wasn’t fool enough to expect an answer, but this, pretending his captors were just another supernatural dick-of-the-week, was all he had to keep mind-consuming panic at bay, especially in a place as Earthly-looking as this. 

“You are, at the present moment, inside me,” Castiel said matter-of-factly.

Dean choked on his own breath. “I’m _inside_ —no, man, _what?_ ”

Castiel tilted his head as if he were studying Dean. It made Dean feel like a bug under a microscope. “You find that lewd,” he stated.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Dean growled. He wasn’t like any demon Dean ever saw, mostly meaning that he didn’t seem ready to pounce and torment at any given moment. “You better start talking right fucking now, or—”

“You lack the ability to harm me.” Castiel sounded supremely unimpressed. “However, to answer your feeble attempt at a question, I will admit that I do not know what is happening.”

“Other than the fact that I’m _inside_ you?” Dean leveled a glare at him. Maybe Dean could humour him and behave, for the time being, that Castiel wasn’t one of Hell’s goons. “Buddy, I don’t swing that way, and even if I did—”

“That’s false,” Castiel interrupted. Dean hated this guy. “I myself am trying to understand why you are able to speak with me. There are almost no historical records of a human soul being so closely acquainted with angelic Grace. I suppose this is a side-effect. I am not actually here.”

What. “Care to _elaborate_?” Dean snapped.

Castiel _still_ hadn’t looked away. Or blinked. “I am presently building your body up on an atomic level.”

Dean nodded. He couldn’t really form words, or thoughts. Maybe he was doomed to an eternity of cryptic blather. “Oh…oh, well, alright. _Great_.”

Castiel turned away. He held his body like a mannequin. He looked like he was moving the bare minimum muscles needed to operate. He began to walk, stiffly, as if he was out of practice with his legs.

“Where are you going?” Dean barked, but Castiel didn’t answer. The man moved like fucking Terminator. He actually, really didn’t seem bothered with Dean, which was utterly confounding. Dean could turn the other way and be rid of him.

Cursing under his breath, Dean jogged to follow.

Castiel stopped at the edge of glade, his eyes tracking movement that was apparently invisible to Dean’s eyes. Dean ended up next to him, hands in his pockets, staring blankly at some trees.

“I believe this isn’t real,” Castiel said. His voice was gravelly, unlike anything Dean had ever heard before. It was almost inhuman, but not unpleasant— Dean didn’t feel the usual instinct to put a blade through Castiel on principle.

“What, this is all in my head?” Dean asked bemusedly.

“No,” Castiel said, and walked forward. Dean mouthed _“no”_ and made a face before following.

Dean struggled to keep pace with Castiel. He was fast for someone who hardly moved his body. “Do you know me?”

“You are Dean Winchester,” Castiel answered robotically. “Your parents are John and Mary Winchester. Your brother in Sam Winchester. You are, apparently, the prophesied Righteous Man.”

Dean stopped. Castiel kept walking; Dean jumped into motion to catch up. “The _what?_ ”

“My superiors have withheld many details from me. It is not my place to tell you.”

“So you don’t actually know anything about me?” Dean pressed. It could be a lie. It also could not. Dean, much to his own chagrin, found himself leaning towards the latter option. It was a relief, albeit a minor one.

“You were never meant to be more than a name in my orders.” Castiel took a right, seemingly at random. “I worry that complications will arise from my handling of you, but in battle one does not have the luxury of choice or doubt.”

“Deep,” Dean muttered to himself.

“A statement of fact.” Castiel looked at the sky. The sun was shining, a yellow light bulb of warmth, but Castiel didn’t squint.

“What are you looking for?” Dean asked, irritated by the secrecy. “If you’re actually looking for a way to get us out, tell me what to look for. I want out as much as you do.”

“You can’t leave,” Castiel said. “You are to stay here until I am in a secure location and your body is complete.”

Dean gaped. “Excuse me?”

“My presence here is an illusion. A fraction of my Grace connected with you, for what reason, I cannot say. My full consciousness is needed elsewhere.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Hey!” Dean barked. He grabbed Castiel’s arm and spun him around so they were face to face.

“Unhand me,” Castiel said smoothly.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” Dean hissed. He hated that he was starting to believe this guy wasn’t a demon, because that meant he needed to understand what was going on, and fast. “Is this some fucked up Hell-induced hallucination?”

Castiel gave him a look that was almost annoyed. “I am pulling you out of Hell as we speak.”

“That’s not possible,” Dean said, “Hell is—it’s forever. It’s the afterlife.”

Castiel pulled his arm from Dean’s grip and continued walking. He turned a corner around a thick oak; Dean ran, because he was not staying in this weirdly, ominously perfect forest alone.

He found Castiel watching a small pool of water, nothing more than a tiny pond. It was so still it was a mirror, except—

Except Dean wasn’t seeing a reflection in it.

He saw something. It was dark. He saw—was that _him?_ He was in some sort of warehouse or barn which was painted excessively with weird hieroglyphs. He looked alert, angry, apprehensive. Bobby was there— Dean’s heart almost tore in two at the sight of him, God, he ached with how much he missed Bobby. Lights sparked out. Dean wondered if he was imagining the high pitched whining, because reflections didn’t make noise. Someone walked into the barn— it was Castiel. Dean, both in the reflection and in real life, gaped.

Light seemed to bend around reflection-Castiel. He looked exactly the same yet entirely different from the stoic tax accountant Dean was with now. Huge, shadowed wings rose behind him, making Dean’s skin prick with goosebumps. He glanced at the Castiel next to him, who was watching fixedly. _Angel of the Lord, huh?_

A leaf fell into the pool, and the water rippled. The scene disappeared, and the pool reflected the trees.

Without a word, Castiel skirted the pool and continued walking.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked. His voice was rough.

Castiel said nothing, and Dean was about to snap at him when he eventually responded, “I hope I am mistaken, but I believe we witnessed the future.”

“What?” Dean could not wrap his mind around that. “Is that— that’s not possible.”

“I would agree, but the evidence proves the contrary.” Castiel stepped over a log and the grass weathered down into a beaten dirt path. With a start, Dean realized they were walking towards a run down log cabin. “There is little known about what happens when Grace and a soul meets.”

Dean didn’t have any more to say. The future? That wasn’t possible. His future didn’t involve Bobby. Also, you couldn't just _see_ the future. Dean didn’t know what Castiel’s plan was, but if he really was going to shove Dean’s soul back into his body, he was pretty certain that Hell would just send more hellhounds and drag him back down.

Would he get put back on the rack? If he escaped, even involuntarily, would Alastair give him another chance to escape the pain and prove himself? Almost immediately, Dean was disgusted at himself. Those were people he maimed, brutalized in ways that were too creative to be performed on Earth, _people,_ not bodies on a platter, no matter how they ended up in Hell.

“I’m going to throw up,” Dean said, as his stomach gave a twist.

“You won’t,” Castiel said, without even looking back. “You have no physical existence and therefore no involuntary reflexes.”

“Fuck you,” Dean gasped, leaning heavily against a tree trunk. “You think you can just pull me around wherever you want? I’m not your fucking puppet. When they drag me back into the pit, they’ll torture me a hundred times worse and it’ll be your fault, so shove your shitty explanations up your ass.”

Castiel turned. His expression, above all, was confused. He walked up to Dean, as if he were a doctor trying to diagnose a rare disease. “Why would you return to Hell?”

“Don’t you understand?” Dean pushes off the tree and stumbled towards Castiel. He snarled, “You don’t _escape Hell_ , you idiot, you stay there and _rot!_ ”

Thunder rolled in the distance.

“Watch your tone, boy,” Castiel said. For the first time, his piercing stare seemed dangerous, and Dean saw a little more of the creature from the reflection in the man standing in front of him. “You have been offered redemption. It would be best for you to show some respect.” He said the last words slowly, threateningly.

Dean swallowed audibly. Castiel turned around and walked into the decaying cabin.

The place was in shambles. There was probably mold growing out of the walls; Dean’s skin crawled. He trailed behind Castiel, putting distance between them.

The place was tiny, weeds growing out of the floorboards. It looked long since abandoned. That was concerning, seeing as how none of this was real. The kitchen was in a horrendous state, and there was definite evidence of rats, so he turned into a hall at random.

He wrinkled his nose at the state of the bathroom, before halting. “Castiel,” he called out without thinking. The word sat awkwardly on his tongue.

The mirror was spotless and like the pool in the forest, had no reflection. It showed Dean in a disgustingly ornate room, something out of the French aristocracy. Dean was there, and Castiel. If Dean thought he looked agitated in the barn, it was fucking rainbows and sunshine compared to whatever this was. They were fighting. Dean punched Castiel and the latter didn’t blink. Dean made a face of regret and pain before it waned into something more desperate.

Like a memory, Dean heard. _It’s Armageddon, Cas, you need a bigger word than sorry._

Armageddon. Dean was pulled out of Hell, apparently to watch the world end.

 _Cas._ The word settled to comfortably into his ribcage it almost caused Dean pain. Cas. An ally? _(A friend?)_

Next to him, Castiel— the real one, or the illusion, or whatever— looked troubled. Truly, genuinely worried, for the first time since they met, which wasn’t a comfort to Dean.

“It seems our acquaintance is not a one-time occurrence,” he murmured, probably just to himself. Did angels talk to themselves?

“Disappointed, huh?” Dean joked, even though he felt. He didn’t know. Scared? Uncomfortable? Lonely? He—he was certain that these visions, these flash-forwards, weren’t something he just watched. He could feel reflection-Dean’s turmoil, his anger, hatred, guilt, desperation, and underneath that an ache that wormed its way through reflection-Dean’s gut when his eyes caught Cas’, like an echo, like it was a part of his past and not an unrealized future. 

“No,” Castiel replies sincerely. Dean looked at him, put off.

Castiel was silent— Castiel was always silent— but it was a contemplative silence, as they left the cabin. It was strange to see his stoic face turned so disconcerted. Dean could sympathize, although he wished he didn’t. These visions or whatever, they weren’t particularly reassuring.

“All due _respect_ ,” Dean said, “I don’t make a habit of working with the supernatural.”

“The idea of a human convincing me to operate against Heaven isn’t particularly comforting, either,” Castiel snapped, then looked surprised at himself. He turned away, and clearly the guy was having a rough time, so Dean took pity and pretended that he wasn’t equally taken aback.

“How exactly is this supposed to help us—or you— get out?” Dean asked, not really expecting much of a response.

“This is a simulated existence,” Castiel said, “There should be weak spots, such as the glimpses we see of the future—a reflection of time. Theoretically, there should be a weak point where I can rejoin my central consciousness.”

“Theoretically,” Dean repeated flatly. “So you’re bullshitting this.”

Castiel did not say anything. Dean was not surprised.

The sun was starting to set, which was ridiculous because it was noon half an hour ago. Dean didn’t like the way this place stretched and bent like spaghetti—it reminded him too much of Hell. As the trees cast long, spindly shadows and glowed in glittering sunlight, Dean found himself involuntarily drawing closer to Castiel, who looked unbothered by the change in environment.

The evening sun cut through the trees and an orange beam illuminated a flat, sandy rock. Castiel stopped abruptly, nearly making Dean crash into him.

Oh, perfect.

“Can’t we just move on?” Dean asked, even as his eyes were drawn to the view on the rock. It was bizarre seeing moving images on a sunlit rock, especially when it was in full technicolor.

It was a dark room, lit by a ring of fire. Dean felt his breath being stabbed out of him when he saw Sam; he sank to his knees and stared at his brother’s face—weary, somber, but his brother’s face—and hurt.

Dean saw himself and Castiel— Cas was inside the circle of fire. He looked so sorrowful that Dean wanted to offer comfort to the Castiel next to him, but then Dean saw himself and oh— oh. His breath snagged painfully and if his eyes burned, he ignored it. Dean-on-the-rock had a broken expression. Devastated. A lump grew in Dean's throat and he felt a sway of nausea, but not because of remembered horrors.

Sam and Bobby left the room. Dean looked back at Cas from the door frame, and Dean could feel his other-self’s deep, gnawing anger, the void that filled his chest. Dean’s face crumbled—a fleeting look of mourning—and he left the room, leaving Castiel standing in a flaming ring.

He didn’t hear Castiel call him over the roaring in his ears, and when pressure tugged on his shoulder, he let himself be pulled up, before stepping away from Castiel’s hold.

“How is this supposed to help us?” he said angrily.

Castiel, for once, wasn’t looking straight at Dean. He looked thoroughly shell-shocked.

Dean couldn’t feel his own hands. He didn’t _know_ precisely what the scene showed, but he felt the sickening lurch in his stomach that reflection-Dean felt every time he thought of Cas as an enemy.

This time, Dean marched away, picking a direction at random. He didn’t know why he was angry, but looking at Castiel filled him with— something.

 _Useless angel tourguides._ If this was salvation, it was shit. He wanted to punch a tree, but he wasn’t angry enough not to realize that would be a stupid fucking thing to do.

He knew Castiel was following him, from the footsteps behind him. He wasn’t very close, and he was lost enough not to turn a different direction or order Dean to slow down. Dean wanted to kick something. He missed the stability of a razor in his hand and a body on the rack, and felt sick. He risked a glance back once, and Castiel was far enough away that Dean had to squint to see his trench coat clearly against the dappled trees.

He twisted through the trees, wondering whether he was trying to shake Castiel off his trail. He didn’t know how he would feel if he succeeded. Bitterness rose in his throat when he realized that he wouldn’t want that. He wanted Castiel to chase after him.

There was another vision, glimpse into the future, weak spot, in the swirling mist of a waterfall. Cas submerging in a river and dissipating into black streaks of tar. Dean felt a violent jolt in his stomach, bad enough to make him want to cry out. He wondered what reflection-Dean was—or will be— thinking in that moment. He almost sent a prayer out into the universe at large for these visions to not be the future, before he caught himself and decided not to tempt fate.

They were coming faster, and Dean sped up, because he couldn’t look at Castiel’s face watching their supposed future.

Cas in a hospital room— the psych ward? Dean reeled from how wrong that was.

Cas slipping down a slope on a desaturated hill, as Dean tried frantically to pull him along— they were ripped apart and Dean felt his stomach cave in.

 _I need you_. Dean was beat to all hell and there was still a swell in his chest when he clutched Cas’ hand. Real-Dean hated his future self.

Dean watching Cas through a Gas’n’Sip window. He was nearly rocked off his feet by pain he couldn’t place— guilt, grief, longing? Dean couldn’t tell what emotion was what anymore.

Now _Cas_ was beat to all hell, and Dean could have killed him, but he didn’t. Real-Dean felt a sting of self-disappointment and a barrage of muted agony.

Dean found himself running, and maybe he didn’t have a physical body but he still experienced oxygen depletion as his lungs burnt to a crisp and his muscles streaked with fire. 

He was still in Hell. He laughed through tears at his own childish notions of redemption, because only in Hell could Dean be forced to bear witness to his own pain and loss and love.

Cas was grinning at Dean, but he wasn’t Cas. He was all wrong, energetic and malicious, and Dean was overwhelmed so much hatred, so much grief and desperation that his knees gave out, and he collapsed on the forest floor.

It was dark. He didn’t know when it got dark. It may have happened as he fell. The moon shone silvery-soft light onto his skin. He closed his eyes and didn’t think of how throughout the visions, the lines grew around reflection-Dean’s eyes, he didn’t think about who he had lost, found, and lost again. The forest was peaceful, quiet, soothing like salve on a burn, and it made Dean ache for somebody he didn’t even know.

He didn’t often get to dwell on this in Hell, but he missed Sam like it was a chronic pain. His brother, and all his hope, his belief in good, his ability to make Dean laugh when things went to shit. He wanted to look Sammy in the eye and tell him everything would be okay.

A small, hushed voice said he wanted Cas. Cas who was a man, angel, person that Dean didn’t know.

He didn’t hear footsteps around him. He could have sworn he did while he was running, but now it was silent, and nothing stirred in the forest besides the breeze and the crickets.

Who was to say that Castiel actually existed in the first place? Dean couldn’t go down that mental road. A decade of turbulence, anger, and fond affection was dumped on Dean in a day. If he acknowledged that he loved someone who wasn’t real, he might lose the last vestiges of sanity had had been so desperately clinging on to.

It became too much to lie on the floor, so Dean dragged himself up and halfheartedly began to walk. It was embarrassing how he jumped at every snap of a branch—there was a time when Dean could walk unflinchingly into a den of vampires. Out of every shadow Dean expected something to emerge, a hellhound or a demented version of his father or just Alastair himself, telling Dean that he was a lousy pupil and he needed to be back on the other end before he could continue learning.

Nothing came. The worst sight was a particularly large beetle that came flying at him, and Dean was disgusted by it but it wasn’t dangerous. He despised how this forest tried to lull him into a sense of security.

It was too dark and Dean found a small, stony nook that wasn’t entirely surrounded by shrubbery. He dug through his pockets and found a matchbook. He knew he didn’t have it before. He knew this place put it there. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Dean lit a small fire, and the flames danced merrily, warm like a campfire— _nothing like hellfire_ , said an uppity voice that sounded almost like Sam. He swatted the thought away, and wondered if he was inviting the flames to consume him, but he found he was too numb to worry. He wished for some food, not because he was hungry but because it felt like the natural thing to do, to eat.

Something soft fell against his feet, and he was staring at a bag of marshmallows— _seriously?_ He suspected that maggots would come writing out of the white puffs if he put them in his mouth.

The campfire danced in the breeze. He looked at the marshmallows and tasted the homey comfort of campfire food, the kind he and Sammy considered a meal of luxury as kids, which they had on one of Dad’s better days, when he could buy them real food and they could talk to each other like father and sons rather than drill sergeant and soldiers.

Dean wondered how this goddamn forest rendered him so weak in so little time. He toasted some marshmallows on the end of a stick.

They didn’t burst with maggots. They were delicious and it made Dean want to weep.

It was dumb, but with a warm fire and food in his stomach for the first time in— he didn’t even know how long— he felt himself start to drift off, eyes blinking heavily. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had slept, either. He wondered, briefly, how he could sleep and eat if he didn’t technically have a body, and thought that Cas could explain if he were here. Then, Dean ceased to think.

“Dean.”

It felt good to sleep. He hadn’t felt so good in a long time. He wondered how that was possible in Hell.

“Dean.”

He groaned, actually groaned with sleep, and blearily opened his eyes. Castiel’s worried face was standing over him, watching him carefully.

Dean started up. He glared at Castiel and tried to get up, but his legs felt like jelly. “Where the hell have you been?”

Castiel looked frustrated. “I can’t— I could feel where you were but I couldn’t _get_ to you.” He shook his head, clearly preoccupied.

“How the hell do I know you’re even real?” Dean’s voice quivered and he was so close to never speaking again.

Castiel frowned. He lowered himself until he knelt by Dean’s side, like— like some fucked up, godawful nursemaid. He was way too close for comfort and if Dean thought he were real then he’d have a conversation about personal space.

“I…don’t know how to prove that I am,” Castiel said slowly. “You have been to Hell. You know how it feels. I don’t think this place feels like that.” He hesitated, a very person-like display of doubt. Dean was entranced. “I should hope not.”

“I can’t exactly trust Hell to feel real,” Dean retorted. “It seems pretty fucked up, all those, those visions. Can’t say I didn’t feel a bit tortured, Cas.” The nickname slipped out of his mouth without permission, and he knew he was fucked.

Castiel looked— it could only be described as sad. Dean didn’t like that face. “I can’t provide you comfort. I can only tell you that you can leave soon. And then you’ll know, with certainty, that you are no longer in damnation.”

Dean considered that. It was probably the best he was going to get. If this _was_ Hell, then maybe Castiel would have tried to convince him that this was normal, safe. Castiel didn’t seem to be doing anything of the sort. He wasn’t, honestly speaking, being a comfort, though Dean nevertheless felt steadier with him here.

He gave up. It almost felt good.

“Where do we go now?” Dean grumbled.

Castiel stood. “I believe I have located a suitable exit point. It’s pointless to go, but if there is an end to our journey, it is there.”

“What’s the alternative? Sit around and braid each other’s hair?” Dean asked, half-sincerely.

Castiel gave him a strange look. “I don’t believe we have the facilities to braid each other’s hair.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, finishing the quest sounds like a good distraction.”

Castiel nodded. Then he reached out and offered a hand to help Dean up.

Dean tried not to stare, and he mostly succeeded. The gesture was so…human. Castiel did it so naturally, looked at him expectantly, as if 12 hours ago he wasn’t moving like C-3PO.

Dean took his hand and let Cas pull him up.

They walked in silence. Dean didn’t know where they were headed, but the forest was dewy and cool at dawn and even if this was a massive hallucination, especially if he was still stuck in Hell (a conviction that was diminishing by the minute but stuck no less) he wouldn’t experience this sort of peace again. He let it sweep him along and they walked in comfortable quietude.

“We’re close,” Castiel said, his voice breaking their unspoken vigil.

The forest opened up onto a lakeshore— a large, sprawling lake, glittering against the rising sun. Castiel led them onto a small pier that overlooked the water.

“I’ve been here before,” Dean realized suddenly. It was a distant, buried memory, another one of the rare instances where Dad let Dean have solace as he taught Dean the merits of fishing.

Castiel looked intrigued. “Interesting.” He looked down at the water, and Dean followed suit. He inhaled sharply.

The water was swirling with images. They were a motley of memories, possible-future visions, and other unrecognizable things— swirling galaxies, winged warhorses, ancient soldiers on a battlefield. There were scenes of Dean with old, schoolgirl crushes he barely remembered, and Dean sitting in an old-timey war room with Sam, Cas, and even some blurred figures he didn’t recognize.

Castiel’s eyes tracked a specific image. Dean looked and almost regretted it.

It was the two of them, in a small, dimly lit room, draped over a bed that Dean knew, instinctively, was his own. Dean’s head was pillowed in Cas’ shoulder and Cas’ cheek rested atop Dean’s hair. Cas was stripped down to the white dress shirt and pants that hid beneath the trench coat, and Dean donned a worn band t-shirt, cocooned in blankets. This was not a scene of grieving comfort or a last night on Earth.

Dean nearly fell off the pier. He forced himself not to notice Cas’ rapt eyes tracking the image.

A shallow wave rolled over, and it changed. Dean rolled up to Cas in Baby— he was shaken by how much older he looked, he lived until at least his _forties?_ A lifetime, in his line of work. _And_ he managed to keep Baby in mint condition. He missed that car like a limb. Older-Dean winked at Cas, impish grin on his face, and Cas gave him a long-suffering look before sliding into the passenger seat. Their hands reached for each other.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly.

Dean looked up and still knew that in that maybe-future, he and Cas were driving off, holding hands, like some sort of, dare he say it, old married couple.

“It’s time,” Cas said. “You’re going to go home.”

And if Dean’s heart didn’t burst into something akin to hope, right then and there. “Seriously?”

Cas gave him a tiny, wry smile. “Seriously.”

Dean exhaled. His spine might have turned into rubber, and all he wanted to do was fall back and watch the cloudless sky.

“It’s for the better, but,” Cas started uncomfortably. “You won’t remember this when you wake up.”

Oh. “What?” Dean asked. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel or say or do.

Cas looked over the lake. “All of this— this part of _me_ , that you can see— your soul can perceive it, but your physical mind that rests within your brain, wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. The only thing for you to do is forget.”

“So, all of it. Gone,” Dean forced out. He didn’t want to forget the cerulean sky, the sweet birdsong, or Cas.

Cas did a thing that might have been a shrug. “Technically, your soul will retain an imprint, a ‘memory’, but for all intents and purposes, yes. Gone.”

Dean looked at Cas. Cas looked back. His eyes were bluer than the sky. “Will you remember?”

“I’m uncertain,” Cas deliberated carefully. “I certainly have the capability, but as I’ve said, my presence here is a minuscule part of me that connected to your soul, likely helping it stabilize while your physical self was recreated. Once you leave, this part will be lost to me; or, it may merge with my larger consciousness and be drowned, so to speak.”

Dean nodded. He breathed out, haltingly, before he trusted himself to speak. He caught Cas’ gaze and pushed all possible displays of conviction to the forefront of his expression. He promised, “I’ll find you.”

Cas smiled again— it wasn’t particularly happy, but it contained no regret. “Assuming those visions we saw were telling the truth, it might be wiser to not.” He hesitated and Dean really hated seeing the dude sad. “We cause each other pain.”

“Fuck that,” Dean flared, because no. In a moment of unadulterated recklessness, he grabbed Cas’ hand; Cas let himself be pulled, and Dean gripped Cas’ hand tight between their chests. Cas was so close Dean could have kissed him, but no. Now wasn’t the time.

“Dean,” Cas beseeched, but made no effort to move away.

“You really want out that bad?” Dean challenged and Cas shook his head without a pause, no, of course not. “Then?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cas whispered.

“Well, that’s tough, because I take the bad with the good. I didn’t—” Dean took a deep breath. “I never thought I’d even live that long. Definitely never thought I’d live it with…with someone. Like that. I’ll take it. _All_ of it.”

Cas closed his eyes. He said, almost inaudibly but with more emotion than Dean would have thought him capable of a day ago, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean repeated, feeling like he committed to something big. Like, “we’re moving too fast” kind of big. He thought maybe he’d get time to figure it out, later.

“The future isn’t set. You— we might be able to make things better,” Cas said. He didn’t sound too confident. He reached out, placed the slightest of touch at Dean’s jaw, brushing his cheek with less force than a feather.

He moved his hands to hold Dean’s shoulder in a vicelike grip. Heat seethed underneath his palms, a blaze of pure white light, penetrating Dean’s skin like a hot iron, but there was no pain. The ground became nebulous underneath him, a sensation like he was about to float away. Cas dropped his hands to interlace them with Dean’s. His voice echoed around Dean, nearly inaudible over high-pitched vibration. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you.”

Knowing Dean’s life, if he tried to change things for the better it would probably go even more to shit. But there was a spark in his chest, something almost like prospect, because he was gifted with what he once thought, in the pit, he was burdened with an excess of: _time_. He could watch the sun rise and fall and mark calendars because he could take it one day at a time.

Dean smirked and squeezed Cas’ hand. “See you on the other side, Sunshine.”

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> This is, essentially, my interpretation of what happened right after Dean was saved. Basically borne out of the idea "what if Dean and Cas transcended space-time?", it's something that I sat on for a long while, and then literally wrote 5-6k words in a day because it just came to me. I hope it was a worthwhile story to read.
> 
> Um also disclaimer, I do not practice a Judeo-Christian faith, I did not grow up with a Judeo-Christian faith, ergo I have no experience with the Bible or any other religious text. If there are issues with the verse I quoted, I'm sorry. It just be like that.
> 
> Any comments/kudos will be much appreciated. I'd offer another contact but I left Tumblr so I don't really have one.


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